


Hold It Together (Until You Can't)

by Joana789



Category: All For the Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Future Fic, M/M, Neil's just having a hard time, Past Abuse, Post-Canon, Scars, Smoking, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 23:03:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8121076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joana789/pseuds/Joana789
Summary: Andrew holds his gaze just for a second longer before turning away, and Neil breathes in, because even if Andrew Minyard, with his extraordinary memory, remembers the date — which is likely, Neil knows — he gives no sign of it.Neil thinks that perhaps it is carved into his memory only.orExactly a year after Baltimore, Neil doesn't expect to feel like this.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know if it's good... Sorry if it isn't. See for yourselves.

 

It’s on a Thursday this year, and Neil wakes up feeling hollow.

It’s too early, still not bright enough outside to call it a day yet, but not quite dark to settle on night, either, and dull, the view outside the window deprived of light in a way that makes everything around seem ashen grey.

Neil lays awake, stares at the ceiling as if its crushing weight above could help him breathe more steadily, and then, into the quiet of the room and for no-one else to hear, he whispers, ”Nathan Wesninski is dead.”

He hasn’t heard his father’s name in such a long time it almost feels surreal to form it again, to have it within reach and on his tongue, and if the room wasn’t so silent, the words would get lost in it, but they don’t. They ring instead, and then fall somewhere, mix with the air and make Neil’s chest feel heavy when he takes a breath.

He slips out of bed, his steps barely a rustle on the carpet, and wonders how come a man who’s been dead for a year can still have such an impact on his life.

  
———

  
He goes running, because this is what he’s the best at, still.

It’s early enough for only a few people to be out on the streets and chilly enough for Neil to shudder when he first leaves the Fox Tower, but that doesn’t last long. He breaks into a run as soon as the door slams closed behind him, the pace deadly quick from the very beginning and Neil runs when his breath starts to get uneven and he runs when his muscles start to ache and he runs when his lungs start to burn and when his head starts pounding but it’s still not enough to clear his mind.

He hoped it would work like it always does, but apparently not today.

When he finally slows down, he feels like his own body is betraying him, kind of, because he needs to _go_ , get away and run, and he can’t. The rush of blood in his head is too loud and he can barely catch his breath — something he is used to, but not like this — and when he stops, he discovers that he’s shaking all over.

 _A year ago I was in Baltimore_ , he thinks absently, digging his fingers into the fabric of his sweats when he almost bends in half, trying to inhale and exhale properly. _A year ago I was in a basement, begging my own father not to kill me._

Neil thinks about the cleaver in Nathan’s hands and the weight of an axe against his throat and the bullets piercing through Nathan’s body, and he digs his fingers into his knees so hard he knows it’ll leave bruises.

  
———

  
Neil feels guilty, thinking about his father.

He shouldn’t even care, and he knows it for a fact. Nathan Wesninski is not worth it, dead or alive, and he’s never been, but Neil can’t do anything about how empty he feels inside when he goes back to the dorm, and cold all over, and he _hates_ it. It’s okay to feel bad about his mom sometimes — about how she desperately tried to cling onto life until it was too late — because Neil loved her in his own way, just like she loved him in hers, he’s sure. His mother was the panicked protection they both so badly needed back then; she was all the promises forced out of him and then repeated every night; shitty diners near highways and secrets and stitches and back pressed to back, bruises on his face, a gun under his pillow and _survival_.

And Neil _hates_ that it’s his father he can’t get out of his head, still, despite all this. His father, who first put a knife in his hand when Nathaniel was five and who then ordered Lola to teach him how to handle it properly. His father, who burned his skin with an iron for not sitting still enough; who gave him a concussion for not looking him in the face while speaking, who murdered a man right in front of him, who promised Neil he’d skin him himself, and with pleasure at that.

He thinks about how painful his mother’s death must have been, hours and hours long; remembers how her grip on his arm got weaker with every passing second and how he choked on smoke later, how heavy her bones were in his backpack.

He thinks about the hint of recognition on his father’s face, a shadow barely there before his body hit the ground, because everything happened so quickly there was simply no time for anything more to cross his mind than the awareness of dying itself.

By the time Neil reaches the dorm, he feels nauseated.

  
———

  
He gets into the shower and tries to stop thinking, stop remembering, stop being Nathan Wesninski’s son because being only Mary Hatford’s wouldn’t be perfect, either, but it would be _enough_.

The water is hot, just on the verge of the temperature of it being too high, and for a split second Neil remembers the burn of Lola’s dashboard lighter on his arms, the blinding, white pain of it on his cheek, and it pushes all the air out of his lungs.

Neil scratches at the burns and at all the scars on his chest as if it was possible to get rid of them if he just rubbed them away, and he knows they won’t come off and he knows they won’t vanish, but fuck, he _wishes_.

He gets out of the shower and does not look in the mirror.

  
———

  
The others don’t remember, Neil thinks.

It’s good news. He listens to the sounds of them waking up and getting ready for the day, rustling around, listens to the doors creaking and answers all the _”Good mornings”_ mixed with muffled yawns and he doesn’t really think they remember because their eyes slide over his scars like they always do now, and Matt only asks ”You okay?” in passing, but that’s something he does every once in a while just because he’s Matt, so Neil gives him a nod and that’s that.

Andrew eyes him briefly when he walks into the room, but his expression is as blank as always, and Neil decides to ignore the silent demand of explanation in his stare, pretends he hasn’t been trying to get his father’s image out of his head for the last three hours, and tells him with a shrug, answering a question nobody asked, ”I went for a run.”

Andrew holds his gaze just for a second longer before turning away, and Neil breathes in, because even if Andrew Minyard, with his extraordinary memory, remembers the date — which is likely, Neil knows — he gives no sign of it.

Neil thinks that perhaps it is carved into his memory only.

  
———

  
The practice is a complete disaster.

Neil tries to hold it together in the beginning, and is quite proud of himself when he succeeds, but then something slips and breaks and starts to crumble and he can’t stop it. He plays like a mess, and he knows they have a match in two days, is aware of the glances his teammates cast him — some worried, some grim and some angry — and he can hear Kevin yelling at him to pull himself together, but for the first time in ages he can’t focus on Exy anyway.

Minutes pass in a slow blur, then hours, and then it’s over and Neil’s fingers tremble around his racquet.

Wymack orders them off the court, and the first thing he says to Neil is a harsh, ”What the hell, Josten?” and Neil puts all the strength he has left into suppressing a violent flinch crawling under his skin.

He doesn’t think he succeeds much, judging by the way Wymack freezes for just a second and the irritation in his eyes dims with worry, so he manages a ”Sorry, Coach,” before any other words are spoken aloud and hurries to the locker room.

  
———

  
This time, Neil forces himself to look at his reflection, hoping it would shake him enough to get all the thoughts out of his mind, hoping it would remind him that he’s the one that survived, the one who’s still alive, and not Nathan, but it does not work that way.

He takes the image in — the cold blue of his eyes, the hair still not dark enough to be what he was once used to, and stares at his lips, knowing that if he smiled, it would be a dreadful thing because his smile has always been just like his father’s, a sharp, tight curve of his lips more than anything else.

And then he looks at the scars on his one cheek and the burn marks on the other — they look better than a year ago, healed as much as possible, but that doesn’t mean the sight of them doesn’t remind him of Lola’s laugh every damn time — and for a minute he’s Nathaniel Wesninski all over again, a boy who buried his mother with his own hands when she died and then threw her phone into the sea; a boy always running for his life, a boy always alone.

He wonders if he ever really stopped being him.

  
———

  
Andrew corners him the second Neil gets out of the building, but he feels only half—surprised.

Andrew doesn’t look any less bored than usual, but there is tension in his shoulders Neil can see, even if barely. He doesn’t say a word, but stands in front of Neil almost close enough to make him take a step back and there’s the same silent demand in his eyes that Neil has already seen in the morning, only now it’s more pronounced.

Neil swallows and, ignoring the stare, after a couple of seconds says, ”Aren’t you going to class?”

Andrew’s gaze is heavy on Neil when he asks in response, ”Are you?”

And Neil wants to say _Of course_ at first, instinctively, but then he thinks. He thinks about his trembling fingers, a tight but shuddery grip around the racquet, and about the hollow feeling in his chest that doesn’t want to go away, and about the way his muscles burn from how much he’s already run today, and how he can’t remember the last time he needed to keep moving and stop thinking as badly as he does now.

He averts his gaze and it still takes him a moment to exhale an answer.

”No.”

And then they’re silent again, Neil pretending to focus his gaze on something behind Andrew’s shoulder and Andrew, in response, staring right at Neil, until Andrew says, a bit harsh — after seconds or minutes or hours, Neil has no idea — ”I know what day it is today, Neil.”

It sends an unpleasant shiver down his spine, a familiar feeling, and he can’t help but think how furious his mother would be if she knew — that he let someone in, that he couldn’t hold it all together anymore, inside, and that others can see how vulnerable he is, that everyone else could forget, but never Andrew Minyard, no.

Neil feels kind of numb standing in front of Andrew like that, and unguarded and weak all at once.

”The first lesson starts in a moment,” he says, because it’s the first thought that comes to his mind, and the first thing that leaves his mouth, and maybe it’s a stupid thing to say, but Neil doesn’t care, not really.

Andrew tilts his head, just barely, and seems to think about the words before speaking; his voice is quiet when he finally does.

”Do you want me to go,” he says, slower than usual, but with an indifference still, although if Neil was anyone else, he wouldn't notice the change at all, ”or stay?”

And this, of all things, is what makes Neil look at him, finally, because with Andrew there’s no other answer but just one.

”Stay,” he asks.

  
———

  
It’s early in the morning, but that doesn’t stop Andrew from lighting a cigarette for Neil, and then another one for himself. Neil takes his with something resembling gratefulness, almost, and takes a drag, then another, and watches the smoke mix with the air until it’s all gone.

He wouldn’t be able to smoke if it was the anniversary of his mother’s death, but it’s not, not today, because today is all about his father, and Baltimore, scars and knives.

He does feel odd, though, because there’s something inside of him that doesn't quite make sense. His head is half-clear — even if unpleasantly so, in an empty manner of a man unhealthy, in a way that seems almost serene — but his body can’t fight the urge to keep moving, keep going, keep running. He fidgets, plays with his cigarette and trembles because he just can’t sit still and can’t get rid of the whole restlessness he feels and it’s almost like he’ll go mad if he has to stay in one place for too long.

Neil hasn’t felt that in a long time, and there’s this little ember of fear in his chest that appears at the realization.

Andrew leaves him to his thoughts, smoking his own cigarette in silence, and Neil is grateful for that, too. He’s never been too good at accepting comfort, and Andrew has never been stellar at offering it — none of the Foxes has been, really — and skipping that part will make it easier for Neil to deal with.

He doesn’t need comfort. What he needs is to go, to leave, to flee, to get rid of this sensation crawling under his skin.

Only when he turns to Andrew does he discover that Andrew has been looking at him with this stony expression of his, and Neil can almost taste the words before he says them out loud.

”Let’s go for a ride,” he says, out of the blue, voice low, stubbing out his cigarette — or what’s left of it, at least.

Not a thing changes in Andrew’s expression when he gets up and goes, and not a word leaves his mouth, and Neil follows.

  
———

  
Neil gets into the passenger seat before Andrew could possibly hand him the keys, and says, quietly, ”Wherever you want to go is fine,” because he doesn’t care where they end up as long as they keep moving.

Andrew eyes him for a second too long this time, but starts the car either way, and as they leave the parking lot, Neil thinks about the sight of Lola dying, of his father falling motionlessly to the floor, and about how none of this matters because he feels like he’s being hunted all over again.

  
———

  
It’s like a mental meltdown that is a year late.

  
———

  
The ride is long and blurry, full of traffic lights and cars and grey, hideous clouds in the sky. Neil listens to the silence, the sounds of the engine. Neither of them say a thing, and Andrew does not turn the radio on, but the quiet doesn’t bother Neil, not in the slightest — if anything, it’s a relief because Andrew doesn’t ask and doesn’t push and anyway, doesn’t he know what it’s all about already?

When the car finally stops, it feels like hours has passed, or days. Neil gets out after Andrew does, not quick enough, with his slightly shuddery movements and inability to focus and he takes a shallow breath as he slams the door behind him.

They’re in a parking lot somewhere, but it’s not in Columbia because Neil would know. It’s a desolate place, deserted; Andrew’s car is the only one there, and that might be because it’s the middle of the week and the middle of the day, but Neil has a feeling that’s not the case. He looks around and only sees empty space, gray concrete, the horizon line in the distance, some buildings if he squints.

Andrew is leaning against the hood of the car, looking at something or nothing at all, but he only takes up half of the space, and Neil assumes it’s an invitation of some sorts, so he goes and joins Andrew there. He tries to find this thing Andrew seems to be staring at in the stretch of area in front of them both, but his eyes only slide over shapes and sights, get tired of the all-present gray, and give up eventually.

”What is this place?” he asks, turning his gaze away and looking at Andrew instead.

Andrew, in a flat voice, answers, ”A parking lot.”

Neil would huff out a laugh if it was any other day but today, it isn’t though, so he just leans back on his hands, feeling the cold metal under his palms. ”There’s nothing here.”

Andrew is silent for a while, long enough for Neil to start thinking he won’t bother phrasing a response, but then Andrew sends him an impassive look and shrugs.

”You told me to choose,” he mutters and lazily turns his gaze away. ”It’s your problem if you don’t like it.”

”I’m not complaining,” Neil says and leaves it at that, and Andrew doesn’t seem to be interested in any possible rest of his answer enough to specifically ask for it.

It’s a silent place, where they are, and a bit cold and Neil wonders how Andrew had found it, and when — if it was in his life before the Foxes or only before Neil; if it means something to him, maybe, although that’s not likely; if it holds memories of some sorts that Neil won’t even ask for the access to, because that’s not his thing to have and not his thing to share.

He doesn’t know what it is that makes him speak again — if it’s the way his head pounds but breath shudders, if it’s how he can’t fight this hollow feeling inside even though he hates it with whatever strength he has left.

”The last time I’ve been to a place like this was with my mother,” he mutters, kind of abruptly, and he doesn’t care if that even makes sense, what he says, because the memories are all already there, unwanted but still too vivid, so he goes on. ”I was fourteen, and we had to stop to stitch me up after one of my father’s men stabbed me.”

Neil presses a hand to his abdomen, where the scar after this injury still marks his skin, and the movement seems to draw Andrew’s attention; Neil can feel his eyes almost piercing through the fabric of his hoodie. It’s a jagged scar, the one Neil means, hard to miss but easy to turn the gaze away from because it’s ugly and pale and long and it’s one of the marks Neil hates the most, really, even though he has so many to choose from. Andrew traces it, sometimes, when they’re alone, with careful fingers and cool touch, almost absentmindedly, a silent question Neil has never answered before.

”That wasn’t a serious wound, not deep enough to threaten my life, but I remember there was a lot of blood,” he says because it’s another thing he’s never told anyone, and when the words leave his mouth, they seem almost foreign. ”Mom got angry. It was a close call, and they almost got us and we had to leave the state as quickly as we could, she said. The very next day, we flew to Montreal.”

There’s a peculiar sense of relief that accompanies phrasing the words, as if sharing some unimportant story could bring an ease of some sorts, and Neil closes his eyes briefly. Talking about his mother should feels wrong today, but he can’t really say if it does; they have always been one fucking twisted family, his mother and his father and Nathaniel Wesninski himself, and today Neil feels more like Nathaniel than anyone else.

He doesn’t expect it when Andrew speaks. ”She was angry that you got stabbed?”

Neil’s dimly aware that it’s supposed to be a question — that it would be, if asked by anyone else, full of disbelief or horror or skepticism, but from Andrew’s mouth it sounds more like a bored statement, a fact well-known; Neil shrugs anyway.

”That’s how she expressed worry, usually,” he says because that’s the truth, to some extend, at least. ”That’s how she kept us both alive for so long.”

”By stitching you up in desolate parking lots and yelling at you when you got injured and beating you up when you looked at a girl on the street,” Andrew mutters, and it sounds weirdly similar to a snarl. ”By teaching you that running is the only way to survive.”

There’s a spark of something in Andrew’s voice that Neil feels the need to argue with, and he thinks, _no_ , because his mother did teach him to run — for his life and away from all the problems — but she taught him so many other things, too. Neil thinks about that time she first showed him how to drive a car and how to get a fake ID, and why a gun was better than knives, despite everything his father had ever said; he thinks about her hands pressing hard against his wounds, trying to stop the blood, about her swearing and cursing and about _”You’re going to get us fucking killed one day”_ , and about how he hated her sometimes, about how she hated him, too, and how, in the end, they were both stuck with each other anyway.

”It worked,” is everything he says, though, because he’s not sure if he could put all those thoughts into actual words. ”Against my father, that was the only thing that ever did.”

There’s a brief stretch of silence, and then Andrew says, ”But not today.”

Neil turns to looks at him, and discovers that Andrew’s gaze feels even heavier when faced directly, in a way it has never felt before. There’s a slightly uncomfortable wave of surprise at his words Neil fails to suppress, and he tries to read Andrew’s face, but there’s nothing in the expression to define and he grits his teeth.

”No,” he admits, hating how defeated the word sounds. ”Not really.”

There’s more to say than that, still, and Neil can feel it on his tongue as he mulls the words and sentences over, turns them inside out in his mind. He turns his gaze away, finally, because it’s easier like this.

”Running worked when my father was still out there,” he admits, vaguely gesturing at the space around them and then moving his hand to his temple, pressing his fingers to the thin, too-soft skin briefly, ”but not when he’s only left in here.”

He feels weak, saying those words out loud.

”Your father’s dead,” Andrew says, words almost harsh, a mantra Neil’s been repeating to himself for hours, pointlessly, because they’re meant to bring ease and they don’t, they don’t, they _don’t_.

He answers, ”Yeah,” and it’s the most unconvincing thing he’s ever fucking heard from himself.

Nathan’s death seems like a fake scene to him, sometimes, when he lets himself think about it long enough; a play staged for someone else’s amusement. Neil had seen his father die right in front of him, and he’d been there to witness it, but right now it’s barely enough to hold on to, because how can Nathan Wesninski be really dead when his son is still alive? How can he, when it’s his eyes that look at Neil every day, cold and soulless and dreadful?

So when one part of Neil’s mind repeats the words — _Natan’s gone, your father’s gone_ — the other says, _Is he really?_

The breath he lets out is a shaky one, unsteady, and for a moment he has a feeling Andrew somehow knows what’s going on in his mind, that he can see it all written in the features of his face and the line of his lips and it’s a ridiculous idea but present nevertheless.

Neil searches for a subject to focus on, something to turn his attention to.

”I know I promised you I wouldn’t run again,” he says eventually, after a second of hesitation, and it kind of tastes like an apology even though he knows Andrew hates to hear those, ”but I just couldn’t… I had to. Just for a while.”

Andrew’s gaze moves from Neil to something else and then seems to flicker back to him, lazily.

”I know.” A pause. ”That’s why I came with you.”

Neil swallows.

”I’m — I’ll be good for the game. And tomorrow, too,” he promises, clinging to the thought. ”It’s just today that —”

”I don’t care about the game,” Andrew interrupts, voice calm, but there’s something new about the way his posture changes just slightly, and how he shifts his weight. ”But if you start with the _I’m fine_ bullshit again, I will hurt you.”

Neil tries to work around how tight his throat feels.

”Sorry,” he manages. ”That’s kind of a habit by now.”

”I’ve noticed,” Andrew snarls, expression blank, but shoulders tense. ”It’s fucking annoying.”

Neil opens his mouth at that, but Andrew continues, ignoring the action.

”Nobody expects you to be okay all the time, so stop lying,” he says, and it’s a little more heated than what Neil’s used to; that’s a surprise. ”And stop being a fucking idiot.”

The words are sharp and harsh, but Neil has already learnt, having spent so much time around Andrew, how to recognize impatience when he hears it.

That’s not what it is.

That’s something he’s heard already, a year ago in Baltimore while kneeling on the floor in the middle of the room full of people, but with his eyes for only one of them. He remembers the way Andrew’s hands clutched at the fabric of his hoodie back then, grip strong and possessive, and how careful and slow his touch was when he peeled the bandages off Neil’s face to examine the wounds. He remembers how closely Andrew listened to his every word back then, before the questioning, and during, and after, too. He remembers telling Andrew about the axe in his father’s hands, and the cleaver, and the blowtorch that Nathan brought but never got to use; about the basement, how dark and claustrophobic and familiar it was.

Neil looks around, takes in the empty, vast space around them once again, and he gets it, suddenly, why Andrew brought him here; it clicks and makes sense and fills his chest with something faintly warm, something that could thaw all the ice in his veins, and he wonders how come Andrew always, always remembers.

He thinks about, _”I don’t trust them to give you back”_ and _”I told Neil Josten to stay”_ and breathes in.

”Andrew,” he says, just to get Andrew’s attention, and his voice comes out thick, with an edge he barely recognizes, and the words get stuck in his throat, almost, but he still asks, ”Yes or no?”

There’s a thought, lurking in the back of his mind, that Andrew will say _no_ today, for a reason Neil does not want to ponder on, but Andrew doesn’t. There’s a hand at the back of his neck before he can get another word out, a well-known, grounding touch, and Andrew pulls him in for a kiss instead of answering. The faint warmth in his chest flickers.

Andrew kisses him like he has something to prove, like there’s a point to make and a message to convey. His lips are warm and persistent and soft all at once, and it’s a serious kiss, bordering on desperate, nearly, and Neil can barely keep up. He gets lost in it quickly, in the sensation of skin against skin and in the way his own fingers flex in Andrew’s hair, involuntarily, when Andrew tilts his head and grips Neil’s chin, and Neil doesn’t snap out of it until Andrew’s lips are gone.

”You’re _not_ _him_ ,” is the first thing Andrew says, fiercely, and that’s not exactly what the kiss was supposed to stand for, Neil thinks, but he has a feeling it’s close, almost dangerously so. He wonders, for a second, if ” _him_ ” is supposed to mean Nathaniel or his father, or both, perhaps, but he stops himself before he can ask the question.

Andrew lets go of his chin then, but closes his fingers around Neil’s wrist the next second, pressing his thumb against Neil’s pressure point, and that’s grounding, too, somehow.

And Neil, trying and wishing, _wishing_ to believe it, agrees, ”I’m not.”

The words, when he pronounces them, do not taste like a lie.

———

  
The hollow feeling in his chest stays, but the warmth of Andrew’s touch on his skin slowly seeps the numbness out of his veins and Neil discovers that he can deal with the rest; not right now, not yet, but later perhaps.

They sit in silence until Neil finally says, ”Thank you.”

Andrew sends him a sideway glance.

”For bringing me here,” he explains, and gestures at the space around them with his free hand. _For being with me_ , is what he doesn’t say, but even though Andrew turns his gaze away without a word of a reply, Neil’s sure he understood anyway. ”No one has ever cared about me enough to do something like this before.”

”And who says I care about you,” Andrew asks flatly.

Neil says, ”I do.”

Andrew doesn’t answer that, and Neil counts it as a win.

  
———

  
He doesn’t know how much time passes until he speaks up again, but this time it’s a random thought, one that just comes to his mind, a memory half-forgotten but still important enough to keep, and he opes his mouth and just _talks_.

His voice is small and words are jagged around the edges but neither of them cares. He tells Andrew about that one time — the only time, because he’d remember if there were any others — when his father said he was proud of him and Neil was still young enough let himself be happy about those words, even if warily so. He tells him about how his mother taught him to use a gun. He tells about all the sport magazines he would beg her to buy, just for the Exy part, and how, when she wouldn’t, he’d steal them himself anyway, sometimes; about how hard it was to learn French but easier to learn German. About a neighbor in Lebanon who somehow knew they weren’t just ordinary people looking for a change in their lives, but who never said a thing; about the bruises his mother left on his skin and the scars his father carved and seared into his flesh.

All those things he’s never told anyone Neil unfolds, now, one by one, piece by piece until they make a new image and maybe he says all those words because he wants Andrew to know, because Andrew deserves to know — or maybe he says them because he needs to hear them himself.

Neil knows it might seem strange or stupid or meaningless, what he talks about, but Andrew listens nevertheless, focused — lets Neil talk when he needs to talk and stay silent when he runs out of things to say eventually.

When Neil’s done, he turns to look at him, and Andrew’s gaze is the same as always, a calm stare with all the emotions hidden.

”You have a lot of issues,” Andrew says finally, and that’s the only answer he has for Neil, but the sting his words might have caused is soothed before it can appear because Andrew lifts his hand to Neil’s face, tracing the edges of the burn mark there — with careful, careful fingers and the touch’s not hesitant but still very light.

”Everyone does,” Neil retorts, because if there’s one thing he’s learned from being a Fox, it’s that.

He still feels empty, and numb, a little distant and not like himself, and he knows he’ll see his father when he looks in the mirror later, and Nathaniel, too, and the scars Lola gave him that’ll never disappear, and it’s a hard fucking thing to simply brush off. He hates the fact he’ll have to swallow the image down, time after time, hoping he’ll get used to it eventually; he hates the fact that it all gets to him today, a year too late, that he cares too much when he’s supposed to be over it — when he thought he _was_.

But Neil pushes those things into a corner of his mind because they’re all a little easier to ignore with Andrew beside him and for now, that’s enough.

”Let’s go somewhere else,” he says — pleads, maybe, because he is not ready to go back to the Fox Tower yet, and he does not want to face the others, answer their questions and explain himself. He trusts Andrew to know that, for some reason.

And Andrew _does_ know.

”Am I supposed to choose again?” Andrew asks after a second, already turning on his heal, and Neil breathes in.

”Wherever you want to go,” he says. Andrew’s keys jingle when he gets them out of his pocket.

They go. This time, it doesn’t feel like running.

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](http://angstandcats.tumblr.com)


End file.
